


Bespoke

by LavenderProse



Series: As Many As Possible Squeezed In Between (Knock Yuuri Up Week 2017) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Knock Yuuri Up Week, M/M, Maternity clothes, Mpreg, Pregnancy, day three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse
Summary: "Kitten, what are you doing?""Sewing elastic into the waistbands of my jeans.""...Why.""None of my pants fit anymore. I've been wearing the same pair of sweatpants all week."Alternate Title: Viktor Nikiforov Versus Elastic Waistbands





	Bespoke

**Author's Note:**

> TALLYHO. Finals are over and I stayed up way too late writing this but it's fine. I have nothing to do for a month. God bless the month of December.
> 
> Once again, this was written very hastily. I'm more than aware that a person cannot actually get a bespoke suit in two weeks, even if you're an internationally famous athlete with a Black AmEx. Just suspend your disbelief for me, kids. Just once. Do it for mama.

The winter of 2022 is memorable for several reasons. It’s the first season that Viktor sees one of his students—one that he’s coached through their senior debut, that is; not one that he started coaching in some vague and misguided plan for love that somehow ended up working—make it through to the Grand Prix Final. He’s unspeakably proud of her. She comes in fifth and cries inconsolably until Yuuri sits down next to her and puts his arm around her shoulders and talks to her until she smiles.

He wasn’t visibly pregnant, then. But there was a glow about him that some visceral, instinctive part of Viktor found indescribably beautiful.

Yuuri’s first trimester runs its course through one of the coldest winters Viktor can remember, even having grown up in Saint Petersburg and lived there for the vast majority of his life. Viktor kept space heaters and electric blankets running almost constantly, sending their electricity bill skyrocketing. Yuuri almost fainted when he saw the almost four-figure bill. Viktor paid it and didn’t change anything he was doing; he just started hiding the electricity bill from Yuuri.

Yuuri knows what he’s doing. Viktor thinks they’re both operating under a model of _what Yuuri doesn’t know won’t raise his blood pressure_.

In December, sometime between Viktor’s birthday and New Year’s, Viktor comes home to find Yuuri fussing with something in his hands, eyes very intent as they stare with firm focus on whatever it is he’s working on. Viktor knows that Yuuri does a lot of small-scale crafts, things that take a lot of concentration. He likes to fold paper, although he isn’t necessarily talented in that field. He likes to play handheld video games, which he’s far more proficient at. He sometimes crochets.

Viktor doesn’t pay very much attention at first, because he’s on his way to the kitchen to drop off the groceries. Once they’re all away and a pot is boiling on the stove—he isn’t sure, at this point, what’s going to go _in_ it, but nine times out of ten their recipes require boiling water at some stage, so he’s just saving himself time—he returns to the living room. That’s when it finally catches his attention, what Yuuri is actually doing.

In slow and painstaking movements, with his tongue held firm between his teeth and his brows furrowed, he’s sewing a wide band of elastic onto the waistband of a pair of jeans. They’re an old pair—one that Viktor loves because of the feel of them as he moves his hand up along Yuuri’s thigh. They used to be denim, and probably a decent and sturdy pair, but time and wear have made them cotton-soft and closer in texture to linen. They have holds in the knees and a permanent white indent mark from where Yuuri puts his phone.

“Kitten,” says Viktor. He’s standing in the middle of the living room with a cup of tea held loosely by the lip of the cup, and Yuuri’s eyes take a moment to focus on him, since they’ve been looking at something so close to his face for so long. “What are you doing?”

“My jeans don’t fit anymore,” Yuuri tells him, and there’s a certain tone of ire to his voice. “I’ve been wearing the same pair of sweatpants for three days. My mom sent me a kit that lets you extend a waistband using elastic. It’s removeable.” He looks back down to the pants, which look to be about halfway sewn. His stitches are careful and neat, if a bit clumsy.

Viktor crosses the living room and sets down his cup, sits on the coffee table and carefully lifts Yuuri’s feet into his lap. He’s wearing thick socks, a pair that go up to mid-calf and cover his delicate ankles. Ankles that have been suffering, as of late. He rubs a thumb carefully into the joint and listens to Yuuri’s hum of satisfaction.

“There are places to buy maternity clothes, you know,” Viktor says, and leans down to kiss the prominent jut of that joint. Yuuri slides down a little in his seat and sets his sewing off to the side, after a moment.

“I know,” says Yuuri. His hands fold over his belly. It really hasn’t grown an incredible amount, at least not to the naked eye. But Viktor has now had the experience of watching Yuuri laying flat on the floor trying to button a pair of jeans that were loose on him three months ago, so he knows that there’s more there than meets the eye. Underneath Yuuri’s sweater, the bump is sweet and small. If Viktor were to pull up the hem of the sweater, the line of Yuuri’s belly would be gently curved, and the skin there would be smooth. At night, Viktor cups his hand over that precious little bump and thinks about what it means, and what it will feel like to lay on those same positions in just a few months.

It doesn’t seem possible that things should be happening so fast and yet so _slow_.

“You know,” Viktor says, glancing out from under his lashes with a smile. “And…?”

“Maternity clothes are ugly,” Yuuri tells him, nose scrunching. Viktor peels one sock off and Yuuri points his toes into a perfect arch.

“Yuuri,” says Viktor, raising an eyebrow. “When was the last time you were in a maternity store?”

“Well, never,” Yuuri mumbles. “But it’s all—sort of baggy and neutral. The nicer places are all aimed at women, and the places aimed at men only have stuff that my dad would wear. I looked online the other day and I swear, I thought Google glitched. It all looked like pictures of the same three cardigans paired with the same four pairs of pants.”

“Sweetheart, the nice places don’t put their collections online,” Viktor says. He idly considers going and searching for their bottle of massage oil. Yuuri’s feet are a little rough from the lack of humidity.

“That’s stupid.”

Viktor chuckles. “That’s fashion. There are a couple of places—we can go take a look around on the weekend.”

“How do you know all of this?” Yuuri mumbles. Viktor turns his attention to his other foot, and Yuuri slides down further on the sofa to drape his ankle over Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor kisses one of the fine bones on the top of his foot.

“I have my sources,” Viktor murmurs. It sounds cooler than saying _I’ve been thinking about you pregnant with my child since before we had our first kiss. I have copies of the Vogue Maternity Edition from the last six years. They’re dogeared and highlighted._

“I don’t know,” Yuuri mumbles, eyes caught somewhere in the middle distance, hands smoothing up and down his belly in an idle fashion. “I kind of want to wear my own clothes. I mean, what’s the point of spending a bunch of money on clothes that I’m only going to wear for a couple of months of my life?”

“You can have them retailored afterwards,” Viktor suggests. He hits a particularly sore spot on Yuuri’s ankle and years him groan, sets to soothing it with gentle thumbs. Yuuri’s toes curl beside his ear, and Viktor feels arousal hum gently through the small of his back and down his thighs.

“But still,” Yuuri mumbles. “I just…yeah, I don’t really see the point. I like my clothes. I already _own_ my clothes. They’re comfortable.”

“Maybe just a couple of outfits, then,” Viktor says. “For special occasions?”

“Hmm.” Yuuri raises an eyebrow, staring at him from over the rims of his glasses. His foot slides down from Viktor’s shoulder, drifts down over his chest and then plants itself on the edge of the table between Viktor’s legs. His toe plays gentle on the seam of Viktor’s trousers. “I think you just want to spoil me, Mister Nikiforov.”

Viktor lifts the foot in his hands to his lips and kisses Yuuri’s ankle, and it’s there that he murmurs, “Always,” before sliding off the coffee table and onto the couch. Yuuri accepts him into the cradle of his body, both of them maneuvering conscientiously of the new growth between Yuuri’s hips. Viktor’s hand moves down, under the curve of his belly, the rounded swell of his pubic mound, the plush strength of his thighs.

Yuuri mewls and Viktor’s fingers fumble with the drawstring on his waistband until the sound of water overflowing out of a pot and hitting the hot stove startles them out of it. Yuuri screams quietly into Viktor’s mouth and Viktor jerks back hard enough to brain himself against the arm of the couch.

“Food,” Viktor says, half blind. “I forgot food. What do you want for dinner?”

“Go turn it _off_ ,” Yuuri mutters, nudging him off the sofa. “We can eat _later_.”

Viktor rushes to do what he’s been told.

Later, when they actually have eaten and Yuuri has spend a few hours napping on and off on both the sofa and the bed, he emerges from the bedroom wearing the jeans Viktor saw him wearing earlier. He lifts up his shirt to reveal the black elastic stretched, supportive and comfortable, across the small swell of his belly.

“What do you think?” Yuuri asks. “I know it’s not the most attractive thing, but it’s functional.”

Viktor reaches out to smooth his hands over Yuuri’s belly, the new curvature of it very obvious in a way that it usually isn’t, and smiles.

“Beautiful,” he pronounces. “You’re gorgeous.”

* * *

Yuuri is significantly further along when the subject is breached again. Half a dozen pairs of jeans are now sporting temporary elastic waists, and Yuuri no longer has to be wearing them for it to be obvious that he’s pregnant. Viktor likes to sneak his fingertips under them when they’re sitting together and just keep them there, warm against Yuuri’s skin. Sometimes, the baby flutters against his hand, and Viktor has to stop whatever he’s doing and swallow hard against the lump in his throat.

Many months ago, before Yuuri got pregnant and before they realized that the dates would coincide with the beginning of Yuuri’s third trimester, they both agreed to do an interview with a very popular sports television program. The story of a pair of Olympians who got married and are now coaching the next generation of winners is apparently a very marketable one. The interview has been in the works for over a year and they’ve been assured that, when it airs, it will pull in an audience of millions.

When Yuuri called the network early on in his pregnancy to inform them of the development, they insisted that the interview couldn’t be rescheduled. Viktor, somewhere in the back of his mind, understood this to mean _Our ratings will be even higher now_ , but didn’t mention it to Yuuri because he hasn’t quite reached the age where he’s _openly_ cynical. Just quietly, in his own head.

Now, two weeks before the interview, Yuuri is standing in front of the mirror in their closet looking about five seconds away from outright tears, staring in something like _abject misery_ at the dress shirt that he can’t button up over his belly.

“I didn’t even think about it,” Yuuri says, desperately trying to tug the two sides of the shirt together. “I don’t—the only shirts that fit right now are—are sweaters and T-shirts, and I can’t—I can’t go on international television looking like a bum. Like some kind of—”

Behind him, Viktor presses number eight on his speed dial.

“Yulia,” he says, when his tailor answers promptly on the second ring, “I need the number and location of a menswear store that does bespoke maternity clothes, and I need an appointment with them at noon tomorrow.”

“It’s _about time_ ,” Yulia snaps back, because she’s been trying to get her hands on Yuuri for almost his entire pregnancy. “If you don’t let me do the final fitting, Viktor, I’ll kill you with my own two hands.”

“Of course,” Viktor says, in the way that some people say _do you think I’m fucking stupid_ , and types out the name of a store in the shopping district with his chin hooked over Yuuri’s shoulder, pressing kisses to his neck.

“I’ll take care of it, Kitten,” Viktor murmurs. “Don’t worry.”

The appointment at the menswear store takes only half an hour. Viktor taps his Black AmEx on the counter when they arrive and even though Yuuri frowns at him in distaste, it gets results. They arrive at noon and are back home by one-thirty, even with a stop at Yuuri’s favorite patisserie. Viktor receives assurance from both the store’s senior tailor and the owner that Yuuri’s suit will be in Yulia’s clutches within the week.

When Yulia arrives for the fitting, she sweeps Yuuri off into the bedroom and stays in there with him for almost an hour. Viktor, relegated to the sofa with a whining Makkachin, waits impatiently. He considers that if this is even half the nervousness he feels when his child is actually born, he actually may not survive the experience.

Yulia comes sweeping out, finally, and makes some kind of grand gesture that Viktor doesn’t really pay attention to. Yuuri drifts out behind her, pulling nervously at the sleeves of his new suit jacket. It’s a dark blue double-breasted number, fitted to his belly but not tight. It would be almost militaristic in style were it not for the careful pleats around his waistline. They add a gentleness to the silhouette, appropriate for pregnancy. The pants are fitted and tapered, and Yulia has combed back his hair and smoothed his eyebrows for effect.

“Don’t touch it,” Yulia tells him, even as his muscles start to move. “It’s held together with pins and hope. I’m going to have to take it back to the workshop. But you’ll have it well before the interview. What do you think?”

Viktor works his mouth for a moment, trying to find a word.

“Is it comfortable for you?” he asks eventually. “Because that’s the important thing. That’s it’s comfortable.”

Yuuri’s hand smooths over his belly, and he smiles quickly down. “Yeah, it’s…it’s very comfortable, yes. Or, at least it will be. When it doesn’t have pins in it. What…” He looks up, lashes low. “What do you think?”

Viktor smiles. “It’s gorgeous. I love it. You’re so…” He has to breathe, and sigh it out, because if he doesn’t he’ll just list of every positive adjective he can think of until his face goes blue. “You’re perfect.”

* * *

The interview premiers internationally three weeks after Irina is born. Viktor watches it with a sleeping Irina against his shoulder and a dozing Yuuri laying across his lap. The suit appears for a grand total of ten minutes, most of which is footage from the actual interview itself. The rest of the hour-long program is audio from the interview superimposed onto B-roll that they shot for several days afterward, and Yuuri is wearing sweatshirts and jeans in all of them.

“I didn’t realize they’d be using so much B-roll,” Yuuri mutters against Viktor’s hip. “I look like a bloated fish.”

“You look pregnant,” Viktor tells him, fingers in his hair. “You look like my beautiful pregnant husband.”

“ _Katsuki was seven months pregnant at the time of the interview_ ,” says the narrator of the program, “ _And although this meant we had to stop several times every hour for him to rest, there was a wonderful happiness and optimism about him. In anticipation of their first child, these two champions were glowing—and in his happiness, Katsuki made a pair of maternity jeans look just as enthralling as any one of his legendary costumes on the ice._ ”

It’s said over a shot of Yuuri and Viktor at the rink, and Yuuri is pointing at something off screen while Viktor nods. The camera catches Yuuri’s hand curved over his stomach as he talks, a unconscious gesture—and Viktor’s hand covering his, briefly, before he skates away from the boards.

“See?” Viktor whispers. “Do you see you beautiful you are?”

Yuuri’s head rises from his lap and he stares at Viktor, blinking slowly, for a long moment. Then, finally, he presses a kiss to Irina’s cheek and then one to Viktor’s mouth, before laying back down. He doesn’t answer, at least not verbally, but Viktor thinks he might understand in his own way.

And if he doesn’t, well. It doesn’t really matter.

Viktor will just have to try harder to convince him, next time around.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm LavenderProse on Tumblr and it is WAAAAY past my bedtime.


End file.
